


Talk Dirty To Me

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 07:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Bono is in Dublin. Edge is in L.A. Somehow, they still manage to make it work. In their own strange little way.Set in present day.





	Talk Dirty To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever have one of those ideas that seem like such a great idea (like, for instance, a certain moment from a certain video clip...), but then you start writing it and get to that point where it's like WAIT WHAT IS HAPPENING? 
> 
> Hello and welcome to the disaster that is my evening. This wasn't meant to be nearly as ridiculous as it turned out. I think I just needed to make myself laugh, and I succeeded, even if no one else finds it funny. It's crack but it's not. How did those feels get in there? What are you doing with your life, young lady?
> 
> (also omg there is some joking about a recently dead person because I am a terrible human being, and deserve to be shamed. Seriously, what are you DOING WITH YOUR LIFE, YOUNG LADY?)
> 
> ...ilu all

They made it through the obligatory pleasantries and ensuing interrogation fairly quickly, Edge thought, especially considering how drawn out the process could become. _Had_ become. “And who’s fault is that,” Bono would ask if ever a complaint was made regarding how long it took them to actually reach the point where they could talk about what Bono wanted to talk about, to which Edge would plead the fifth.

Sure, there was a chance that it _might_ have been his fault—the tiniest of chances, no bigger than the sliver of cake he had allowed himself to eat on his birthday in ’03 when Atkins had been all the rage—but there was also a far bigger chance that Bono had long-since mastered the art of turning bitchy when things didn’t go exactly the way that he wanted. And that fun little character flaw had been witnessed by, oh, at _least_ twelve-thousand people over the course of their career, and no doubt a select few of those would happily take the stand under oath and whine about all of the ways in which Bono had chosen to throw that impressive snark their way _._

“I stopped him from stealing a boat once— _once_!—after years of letting him get away with it, and he told me my suit looked slept in,” Paul would say to the judge with that long-suffering look that emerged only when he was dealing with that one particular person.

“I replaced all of the family photos in his office with images of Pennywise the Clown after he confessed to me that the movie had scared the shit out of him. His response to my prank was to tell me I was about as funny as a black and white avant-garde French film,” Larry would say with that sullen look on his face. “I mean, I’ve known puppies that are scarier than that clown, for Christ sake!”

“It’s been over thirty years, but I still can’t forget that moment,” Sting would begin with that forlorn look in his eye. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget. We were just having a nice dinner, Bono and me. A nice, friendly dinner, nothing more. You know, just two rock stars hanging out, getting to know each other, we’ve all been there. And then I feel these eyes on me. _Burning_ into me. And I look up, and there is The Edge, sitting with Adam Clayton two tables over, looking at me with such malice, like I had taken his favourite toy without asking first and now he would have to kill me."

Admittedly, that last testimony _might_ also have been Edge’s fault. But it didn’t really make a lick of difference in the long run. Because the fact of the matter was that there were so many people out there who were savvy to Bono’s prima donna antics, no matter how rare those antics were to rear their head, whereas there were only two people privy to those drawn-out conversations that took place between them over the phone.

Ergo, it seemed clear that Bono could bitch and moan as much as he wanted to, he could throw out the blame like it was going out of style, but at the end of the day anyone who was forced to listen to such accusations would look at him, look at the pile of evidence that had been gathered regarding his pain-in-the-ass attitude, and then look at Edge sitting quietly in the corner minding his own fucking business, and come to a decision pretty damn quickly.

Edge had laid out this entire argument one evening over a pricey platter of Thai food, confident that his deductions would stun Bono so completely that their next phone call might go smoothly from start to finish. No sarcastic quips, no _how many times do I have to say it?_ and definitely no _I’m hanging up now, yes I am, I_ am _, I will if you don’t stop_ , because it had been funny the first time, it might even have been funny the third time, but Edge had grown tired of it around the time that Bono had actually hung up on him.

As it had turned out, Bono had already used his weekly _my what a big brain you have, Edge_ compliment the day before, when Edge had explained exactly what happened when a caterpillar made its transformation, from start to finish. So he wasn’t stunned by Edge’s deductions. He was barely even close to being impressed.

“There are so many inaccuracies in what you are saying to me, Edge, that I don’t even know where to start,” Bono had said, before immediately deciding where to start. “Look, I’ve stolen more than enough boats over the years, so it wouldn’t matter if Paul told me no that one time, because I had all those other memories to draw from and satisfy my urge. My comment about his suit was in no way related to any of that . . . boat nonsense. And I should not be persecuted for being the only one to tell it like it is!”

Edge had just sighed. “Can we skip to the part where you tell me I’m right already?”

“Can we skip past your need to be validated and get to the part where the night gets truly fun?”

“No, this is a no-fun zone, I’m sorry to say.”

“Then you better be prepared to give me a ticket.”

Of course it had ended in sex. That was often how their conversations went. If they weren’t having some sort of intimate encounter, then they were talking about it. And if they weren’t talking about it, then they were hinting at it. And if they weren’t hinting at it, then at least one double entendre was still being made—usually by Bono, who just couldn’t help himself. Though once in a while they did talk about actual other things. The weather. Their families. Their shared admiration of the Teletubbies, which admittedly had started as an in-joke between them in the late nineties before morphing into an odd little obsession that made even their most understanding loved ones raise an eyebrow.

“Terrible news straight out of Hollywood this evening, Edge,” Bono had said during one of their more recent phone calls, his voice grave. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the man behind the suit, that very same man who breathed such life into Tinky Winky, has joined the ranks of the dearly departed.”

Edge had rolled his eyes. _News, he said._ “Oh _no_. Has Dipsy made a statement yet? I know they were close.”

“I sense your sarcasm, and I reject it. How can you be so heartless?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s always terrible when someone passes away.”

“Okay, I know you’re trying to be serious, and maybe your heart even is in the right place, but I’m still hearing a _tone_ , Edge. You callous bastard.”

“I’m not trying, I am being serious. It’s sad. It’s truly sad. We should have a drink in his honour. A toast to—what was his real name?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bono had rushed out. “But I’m all for having a drink. What have you got on your end?”

“Ginger ale. You?”

A beat. “Also ginger ale.”

“Okay, and what do you _really_ have?”

“Well, it depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you want me to list my drinks. Should I start alphabetically, or would you prefer I go from which is most potent?”

“Having a quiet night in then, are we?”

“Well, we can’t always be party animals like you, Edge,” Bono had managed before breaking, the laughter gently rolling out of him. “I’ve got this lovely glass of white from—I think it might be Australian, actually. It’s gorgeous. I wish you were here to share the bottle with me.”

“I’ll be with you before you know it.”

“Ah, but I think we both know the bottle isn’t going to last that long.”

“Then let’s make the most of it. A toast?”

“A toast.”

“But you do know that the Teletubbies weren’t produced by Hollywood, right? They were British.”

“Clever boy,” Bono had muttered. “Look at you, ruining the moment to prove me wrong and show off that big, throbbing brain of yours.”

Later in the conversation Bono had interrupted a pressing concern that Edge had about the Grammys to bring up a far more important matter. “Do you think Tinky Winky was actually gay?”

The air had rushed from Edge’s lungs in one long, drawn-out sigh. “Jesus, I don’t know, B, I think he was a victim of a certain type of stereotyping that is best left in the nineties and forgotten about.”

“That’s a fair point.”

“But I also think that there was something going on between him and Dipsy, so maybe those rumours had substance?”

“Perhaps. But how does Laa-Laa fit into this whole equation? Have you even stopped to consider the sexual tension between her and Tinky Winky?”

“Well, maybe Tinky liked it both ways? You do know bisexuals exist, right?”

“You don’t have to tell _me_ that, babe,” Bono had said slyly, and despite the distance between them Edge had still been a hundred and ten percent certain that a wink had followed.

Sadly, the conversation hadn’t ended in phone sex. It had come close though. It had come _pret-ty damn_ close.

But before any talk about Tinky Winky, or Bono’s hand, or where Bono had wanted to put his hand, there had been the obligatory pleasantries to worry about. “Lay it on me,” Bono had said with a sigh. “Let’s get it over and done with quickly, because I’ve got news, Edge.”

 _News_ to Edge meant . . . well, it meant actual news. Important things that could affect his life, one way or another. And that’s what he had thought Bono was going to drop on him. So he had rushed through the pleasantries, only to have the bombshell turn out to be related to the fucking Teletubbies.

This time he was determined to have the conversation go the way that he wanted it to go. Not by Bono’s ruling. So after they got through the _I’m feeling great_ part of the pleasantries and made it well past the _well I’m not, I’m actually incredibly rested_ moment that was required to show up at least once a month—an average that was, statistically speaking, pretty fucking low considering how often they talked on the phone—they inevitably found themselves in the midst of the interrogation.

“How did _you_ sleep last night, Edge?” came the question, and of course Edge had an answer ready, but that answer was brushed aside like a one-dollar bill. “I don’t mean to brag about the attention that I’ve been receiving from those who have special insight into the human anatomy, but there was a while there where they paid _so_ much attention to me that eventually they got sick of my overwhelming charm and ultimately released me back into the world with a clean bill of health.

“Fightin’ fit, they called me, ready to take on anything. Let the rain of shit continue falling down on me, I say, because I am still more than capable of dealing with anything those motherfuckers have to throw my way. But you, Edge, you gallantly stood by my side throughout that whole ordeal, held my hand, and even prayed, but when the smoke cleared you had flown back to your home planet because you know exactly where those attentive glances go once they’ve grown sick of looking at me.”

“I don’t need to be looked at, Bono, I’m perfectly healthy.”

“But how do you know that? When was the last time someone drew your blood? Or asked you intimate and uncomfortable questions about how your body worked?”

“You ask me those types of questions all the time.”

“And you hate it, right?”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“My point exactly,” Bono said smugly. “You know I live for your validation.”

It wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. Edge could look at it from any angle that he wanted, but still he wouldn’t find a way to spin it into a victory on his behalf. “I just worry,” he started before being cut off.

“I know you do. And I understand, I truly do. But Edge, it’s been over a year, alright? I’m fine.”

“I know you are.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I just ask all the time because I know how much it annoys you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

“I’m not lying. I’ve experienced firsthand just how fine you are, remember? Quite a few times over the course of the year, actually. We even had that one night when I got to experience it twice. Where was that? Chicago?”

Bono let out a chuckle that left Edge feeling warm all over. “Cleveland. That was one long night.”

“Well . . .” Edge shrugged. “Recovery time isn’t what it used to be, sadly.”

“You say sadly, but I disagree. I probably would have been far more successful in life if I hadn’t spent my younger years being such a horny little fucker.”

“I think you’ve done alright, considering.”

“Mmmm, maybe. But I’ve found life to be far more enjoyable when my head is clear for longer than five minutes at a time, thank you very much.”

“Is now one of those times?”

“It’s always about sex with you, isn’t it, The Edge?”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you. I was doing fine until you mentioned your younger years, you know. Now it’s all I can think about. Those were hard times, B.”

“I know, I just told you how hard it was.”

Edge rolled his eyes. “Can you focus for a moment? I’m baring my soul here.”

“Is that what is happening here?”

“I doubt you even noticed me suffering by your side for all those years. You were too busy caught up in what your dick was doing.”

“Yeah, well, maybe, but Edge, I can only garner, after all of our time spent together, that you were also heavily invested in what my dick was doing during those years.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter!” Edge exclaimed. “Do you know what you looked like back then?”

“Back then? _Looked_ like? Am I no longer a sex object to you?”

Edge paused. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn there was real indignation shining through in Bono’s voice. Thankfully, he knew Bono through and through. He was almost sure. Sometimes, they took each other by surprise. This wasn’t one of those times, however. He didn’t think. It was hard to be sure of anything when his cock was threatening to take control of the situation. What he did know was that they had gotten away from where Edge needed them to be. “I called for a reason, you know.”

“To reminisce about the good old days?”

“No, not quite. I’d prefer to focus on the now, if you don’t mind.”

“On the— _ohhh_.”

“Mmmhmm.”

There was the obligatory pause, and then Bono asked in a faux-whisper, “Edge, are you talking about sex?”

“Are you scandalized?”

“I’m actually feeling a little indifferent to the whole thing. Wouldn’t you prefer someone a bit younger?”

“Honestly? I was picturing someone _more_ than ‘a bit’ younger, but since he’s not currently available—”

“Oh, really?” Bono cut in, his tone caught somewhere between the two _fucks._ And Edge couldn’t be sure, but he was hoping it was more of a _fuck me_ situation. “Well, smartarse, why don’t you go and carefully analyze our YouTube page until you stumble across the one video that makes your cock _especially_ hard, hmm?”

“No, I—”

“Happy wanking, baby!”

The line went dead, and Edge couldn’t quite believe it. The little shit had actually done it. And what was he supposed to do now? He’d had a plan. It had been a damn good one too, one where Bono’s voice had been like velvet in his ear, whispering _you know what I would do to you if I were there_ and _remember that night in Prague? of course you remember . . . who could forget a night like that?_ before finishing on _I want to suck you_ or _fuck me, fly over here now, right the fuck now and fuck me, Edge_.

As it turned out, it had been a _fuck you_ situation.

Edge wasn’t very fond of _fuck you_ situations. Rarely did they end the way he wanted them to. Sure, they were fun for a laugh, but laughter didn’t solve the problem at hand, did it?

He tried to solve it himself. He really did. But there just wasn’t enough stimulation to take him where he needed to go. Which was ridiculous, really. He’d done this many, _many_ times before without a visual or audio accompaniment. All he’d needed at the best of times were the thoughts and memories that rushed through his mind, demanding attention in a way that only Bono knew how to pull off. That voice in his ear. _You’ll leave bruises, baby_. And he had. He had. Three days spent in Prague, two with Bono wearing long sleeves in the heat. The thought of that voice in his ear . . .

It gave Edge an idea, actually. One that certainly hadn’t been forced upon him by anyone else, oh no, this was his own idea, no matter how anyone tried to spin it later. It wasn’t like Bono had outright suggested which video he should watch, after all. If anything, it was a joint effort between both their minds.

When he opened his MacBook the idea seemed like such a good one. It continued being that way as he sat there with his cock in his hand, ready to take charge of the situation. But when he pulled up the desired video, realization came creeping in fast. And people called _Bono_ a narcissist. What would they think if they saw Edge continuing to stroke his cock despite seeing only his younger self on the screen? At least Bono had never . . .

Well, maybe he had? Who knew what he got up to when he was alone? Edge liked to think he had an idea. He liked to think that most of Bono’s alone time was spent wishing that Edge was right there with him. God, maybe they were both narcissists?

Skipping ahead suddenly seemed like the best idea that he had ever had. And it had been years since Edge had watched the video, but somehow he still managed to land at the right point. It was like muscle memory. _Spend enough time watching and rewatching and obsessing over a certain few seconds of film and you too can remember every fucking detail for the rest of your life!_

He could still remember filming that moment. Not the entire video. No, that came back to him only in snatches. But those precious few seconds where Bono was at his side? Bono and Larry, of course, no, actually, not Larry. He needed to stay out of the equation. It was just the two of them, those fingers digging into his shoulder, that voice in his ear, his chin, his breath against Edge’s skin . . .

It was vitally important that Edge not associate Larry with any of that. That was a time when shit had gotten more than a little insane, and Edge really did not need another complication thrown into those already complicated memories. He had to focus. Focus on the memory as it played out in front of his eyes. As it forced him to scroll back those fourteen or so seconds again and again until he was concentrating less on what his other hand was doing and more on anticipating the moment when Bono would slip out of the frame and the whole song and dance would have to start again. It just wouldn’t do.

He supposed he could turn it into a gif. But that was just another complication that he did not currently need. Not to mention the fact that gif-making was a longer process than he was currently equipped to deal with. He was a ticking time bomb. How the hell was he expected to deal with these conditions? It had all seemed so much easier only a few minutes beforehand.

He snatched up his iPhone from the desk. The call was answered on the third ring.

"Hello again, love,” Bono said warmly. “Are you missing me that much?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

"Goodness, Edge, what happened to your rigorous and invasive idea of foreplay?"

“I—what?”

“I had the perfect response ready and everything. Do you want to hear it?”

“What? What question are you even res _pon_ ding to?”

“Why yes, I have eaten all my greens, Doctor Edge,” Bono started before dropping his voice an octave lower, “are you still going to punish me for being _bad_?”

“Oh Christ, just forget that I even called back, okay?”

“So, what do you want?”

“What do I _want_?”

“Mmm, you’re right, it _is_ a stupid question. I know that tone of yours. Feeling a little needy, are we?”

“You know, no judge would ever find me guilty if I one day snapped.”

“Oh, I know. ‘That Bono, he had it coming, he did. He’s jus’ lucky it was The Edge that ended it all. Me? I would 'ave made ‘im suffer like he deserved’. You’re lucky I ever turn my back to you, Edge.”

“I like it when you do.”

“You like fucking me, is what you mean.”

“Do you remember Prague?”

“Prague?” Bono barked out a laugh. “Even a blow to the head couldn’t knock that memory from my mind. Why? You wanna go back there? We could go back there if you wanted to. I’m not sure if we should let it play out _exactly_ like it did though. You know—”

“Forget Prague,” Edge said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I just wanted to draw your memory back to that timeframe. Those few months where everything went a bit—”

“Interesting?”

“Insane.”

“Fun though.”

“Definitely.”

“So we’re back in ’93, are we?” Bono let out a low whistle. “Anything particular take your fancy? I mean, besides Prague, which you’ve already removed from the conversation. A bold move, if I ever saw one. Are you sure you don’t want to discuss it further?”

“Do you remember shooting the video for _Numb_?”

A beat. “Is that where we are?”

“Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

“Do you know what that did to me?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I did it? I had to do something to grab your attention."

They’d been over this. Edge could recall a similar conversation, years beforehand. He could even remember the way in which Bono had smiled at him. He was picturing that smile now. They both knew that Edge's attention had been grabbed long before that day. He'd just been a goddamn coward about it, is all.

“You know,” Bono said, “that they wanted me to handle the rope that day?”

“I know.”

“But you said no.”

“I said no.”

“Why, Edge?”

“You know why.”

“I do, but I want to hear it again.”

Edge shook his head. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to be the one talking right now. That’s not why I called. I called because I need to hear it from you. All of it. Again. I need—I _want_ you to help me through this.”

The silence came so suddenly that for a moment, Edge feared that he'd been hung up on again. Once had been more than enough. Twice would have made him more than a little cranky. Just how Bono liked him to be sometimes. _Are you really mad?_ he would ask, and even if Edge wasn’t he would still answer _yes. Yes, I’m mad. I’m fuckin’ furious right now, B, how could you?_ he would say like they were reading from a script, and right on cue Bono would respond with _well, what are you going to do about it?_

It was how Edge half-expected it to all play out when that silence hit. But it didn’t. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Instead, Bono’s voice dropped back into that faux-whisper, sounding completely scandalized as he asked, “Edge, are you suggesting I talk you off?”

 


End file.
